Chapter 15: November 1 - Your Halloween Stalker

3:17 am

Sweetheart,

So much for yesterday's dramatic declaration about the letters ending tonight.

That lasted well.

I've been home less than two hours, haven't slept for a fucking second and finally gave up trying because every time I close my eyes I replay everything on repeat.

I needed to write this down while I can still remember every filthy second.

What the fuck did you do to me tonight?

I found you late, when most of the families had gone home and the maze had finally emptied enough that people weren't shuffling through it shoulder to shoulder. You were standing near one of the turns in that velvet dress and velvet mask, watching everyone who came through the fog, looking for me.

Then you turned and our eyes met and you knew almost immediately.

You went still for half a second and stared at me with this strange, intent little look because apparently I have spent so long staring at you like an obsessed fucking lunatic that even a mask couldn't hide it. There was something else there too, just for a moment. A flicker of recognition, like your brain was trying to place where you'd seen those eyes before.

Then you stopped thinking about it, thank fuck.

Because you walked straight up to me, grabbed my shirt and kissed me like you'd spent the last fourteen days developing exactly as little patience as I had.

Sweetheart.

I had spent months wondering what your mouth would feel like, turns out I had seriously underestimated it. My hands went around your waist, yours twisted tighter in my shirt and that lipstick I'd been obsessing over for days was smeared across my mouth almost immediately. Then you laughed into the kiss.

Actually fucking laughed against my lips.

Do you remember my first letter? I told you I'd wondered what your laugh would feel like if I was close enough to feel it against my mouth.

Now I know, it feels like losing whatever remained of my fucking mind.

You pulled back just far enough to breathe, looked directly at me with that challenge in your eyes and told me to chase you.

And if I caught you, I could fuck you.

Sweetheart, I was already hard from having your mouth on mine and then you stood there looking smug while handing the man who has spent months stalking you the single hottest fucking challenge you could possibly have invented.

And then you tipped the scales with one final line, that you wanted me to fuck you hard enough to feel me tomorrow.

You ran before I could even respond.

I gave you a head start because apparently I'm a gentleman now, although admittedly not a very generous one. I watched that dress disappear around the corner, counted long enough to make myself suffer and then went after you.

You were laughing before I was even close. Every time you heard me gaining on you, you laughed harder and ran faster until you took one turn too wide and I caught you around the waist, hauled you back against me and that startled scream turned straight into laughter because you knew exactly who had you.

I kissed you before you could say anything. You were still laughing against my mouth when another group started coming around the corner, so I pulled you through a gap in the maze wall and into one of the narrow maintenance paths behind it.

Your laughter got breathless very fucking quickly.

You had your hands all over me and I finally got to touch you while you were awake enough to grab me back, which almost finished me before anything interesting had even happened. After months of stealing whatever closeness I could get and then sitting beside your bed touching only the places you had specifically allowed, having you actively pull me against you did something ugly and hungry to my brain.

Then we found that storage room.

I'm giving myself too much credit with we.

You noticed the door, I was too busy kissing you.

The second the door closed behind us, I shoved you against it and kissed you until neither of us could breathe properly, my hands already dragging that velvet dress up because whatever patience I'd started the night with had died somewhere around the moment you told me to chase you.

You'd said I could fuck you if I caught you, and sweetheart, I fucking caught you.

But there was no chance I was putting my cock inside you before I made sure you got your pleasure first. I'd promised you I was going to eat your pussy, and after spending weeks thinking about getting my mouth on you, I wasn't skipping that part just because my cock was hard enough to fucking ache.

I hooked my fingers into your underwear and ripped them apart before you even realized what I was doing. Your eyes widened when I held up the ruined lace, and apparently I'm never going to behave like a normal person around your underwear because I shoved them straight into my pocket.

"Mine."

Again.

You laughed, called me a fucking menace but made this impatient little sound when I dropped to my knees that went straight through me.

Fuck, sweetheart.

I'd wanted to taste you for so long that the first swipe of my tongue almost short-circuited my fucking brain.

I'd imagined your pussy more times than I could count, stood six feet away while you touched yourself and nearly lost my mind wishing it was my mouth making you come, then spent night after night wondering what you would taste like.

Every fantasy was fucking useless.

You tasted so much fucking better.

Warm and wet against my tongue, already slick because apparently being chased through a dark maze by your stalker had done exactly what I'd hoped it would, and the realization made me want to bury my face between your thighs and stay there until neither of us remembered there was an entire Halloween event happening outside.

I grabbed your thighs hard enough to keep you exactly where I wanted you and ate your pussy like I'd been fucking starving for it, because I had. Every little hitch in your breathing told me when I'd found something you liked, your fingers tightened in my hair and your hips started rolling toward my mouth until you were practically fucking yourself against my tongue.

Christ, I loved that.

No embarrassment and no trying to make yourself smaller. You wanted more, so your body fucking took more.

The first orgasm ripped through you hard enough that your knees buckled and I had to pin you against the door with my hands while you shook above me. You were still swearing when I went straight back to licking on your clit.

That earned me a louder curse.

Good.

I wanted you trembling and cursing me while I kept licking you because you'd spent far too long thinking pleasure was something you needed to be quiet about.

By the time the second orgasm hit, your legs had almost stopped working completely. I caught you before you could slide down the door, stood you upright and kissed you while you were still shaking, and the moan that came out of you when you tasted yourself on my mouth was so filthy my cock fucking twitched.

Then your hand dropped between us and squeezed me through my pants.

Sweetheart.

I nearly fucking came in my pants like a schoolboy.

I wish I were exaggerating.

Months of stalking you, stealing your underwear and imagining every obscene thing I wanted to do with your body, and one squeeze of your hand around my cock through my fucking clothes almost had me blowing my load before I'd even gotten inside you.

You could obviously tell what you had done to me. That smug little gleam in your eyes was impossible to miss.

I caught your wrist before you could squeeze me again because apparently I do possess some survival instinct, then kissed you again hard enough to wipe the smile off your mouth for approximately half a second.

Then I spun you around. I didn't need another reminder of what you wanted, I fucking remembered, every word.

I slid my hand up and took a fistful of your hair and pulled your head back just enough to make you gasp before I used that grip to walk you the few steps to the workbench.

Then I bent you over it.

Fuck.

Just fucking look at what you've done to me.

I'd imagined that exact sight enough times to qualify as mentally unwell, but having you actually bent over in front of me with that velvet dress shoved up and bare ass and pussy on display for me was so much better that I almost resented every fantasy I had for wasting my fucking time.

I dragged your hips back toward me, kept my fist wrapped in your hair and checked you were still with me.

You were, very fucking enthusiastically.

So I stopped holding back, and the first thrust nearly broke me.

Fuck, sweetheart.

Fuck.

I'd spent months imagining how your pussy would feel around my cock and somehow every single fantasy had still undersold it. You were hot and tight and so fucking good that for a second I just stayed buried inside you, staring down at where our bodies met because my brain needed visual proof that this was actually happening.

Then you pushed your ass back against me.

Greedy little fucking thing.

That snapped whatever thread of control I had left. I tightened my fist in your hair, grabbed your hip with my other hand and thrust harder.

You gasped, so I did it again harder.

The workbench jolted beneath you and you shoved back into the next thrust like you were trying to see which one of us would lose our fucking mind first.

Then you moaned, "God."

I leaned over you, still holding that fistful of your hair.

"Another man's name while I'm fucking you, sweetheart? Seriously?"

You laughed, breathless and filthy.

"My psycho, then."

Jesus fucking Christ.

"That's better."

You turned your head enough to look back at me and added, "My stalker."

Something inside my brain fucking detonated.

I hauled you upright by your hair until your back hit my chest, kissed you hard while I was still buried inside you, then shoved you back over the workbench because hearing you call me yours had apparently destroyed whatever microscopic amount of sanity I still possessed.

You wanted hard enough to feel me tomorrow, fine, I was going to make damn sure you felt me.

I gripped your hip hard enough that I knew my fingers were going to leave marks and started fucking you harder, every thrust driving you against the bench until it was knocking against the wall and something crashed off a shelf beside us.

Neither of us gave a fuck.

You squeezed around my cock and I nearly lost it again. And when I told you to do that again, you did. I swear you knew exactly what you were doing because you squeezed me again while pushing back into my next thrust, and for one horrible second I thought the woman I'd spent months stalking might actually be the one who killed me.

What a fucking way to go.

But I was all in, so I fucked you harder.

Your fingers clamped around the edge of the workbench and your voice got louder with every thrust, until the sweet little sounds I'd spent weeks obsessing over had turned into shameless moans and broken screams.

That was what really fucked with my head, you didn't hide any of it.

Every hard thrust got an answer. Every time I pulled you back onto my cock you let me hear exactly what it did to you, and when I squeezed your hip harder and drove into you again, you fucking moaned for more.

Sweetheart, I was obsessed with you before. Now this was something worse, much fucking worse.

The screams coming from the maze outside swallowed yours so perfectly that I started laughing, because apparently we had stumbled into the most appropriate place on earth for this. People were running through dark corridors screaming because strangers in masks were chasing them. Meanwhile, behind one of the walls, you were bent over a workbench getting fucked senseless by the actual stalker you had dared to catch you.

That is so beautifully fucked up I may never recover.

Then your body tightened around me.

Fuck.

I felt it before the scream left you, your pussy squeezing my cock while your whole body went rigid beneath my hands, and I kept thrusting through it because I had spent too fucking long imagining what it would feel like to make you come this way to stop the second I finally got it.

You screamed.

Properly fucking screamed.

No swallowing it and no worrying whether anybody could hear you.

I held you exactly where I wanted you, fist still buried in your hair and my other hand locked around your hip while the orgasm tore through you and the way you kept squeezing around me finally ripped the last scrap of control straight out of my fucking hands.

I came hard enough that for a few seconds there was nothing in my head except you, and the completely deranged satisfaction of finally losing myself inside the woman I'd spent months obsessing over.

And sweetheart, I have never been so fucking proud of anything in my life as I was of you in that moment. You'd gone from hiding your own pleasure in an empty bedroom to screaming while your stalker fucked you behind the walls of a Halloween maze.

Look at you. Look what the fuck you did. Look what you've done to me.

Because I thought fucking you might take the edge off.

That is genuinely hilarious now, because it made me worse.

Now I know exactly how fucking good you taste. I know what your thighs feel like tightening around my head and how your pussy squeezes my cock when you come. I know what your body feels like when I manhandle you into the position I want and you fucking melt into it because it's exactly what you wanted too.

I know how loud you get when you stop caring. I know how you feel when you push back into my thrusts because apparently even when I'm fucking you as hard as you asked, some greedy part of you still wants to be closer.

How the fuck was knowing all that supposed to make me less obsessed?

I want more now.

So much fucking more that the version of me who only wanted to watch you through windows suddenly seems almost well adjusted.

When I finally let you straighten, your legs were trembling badly enough that I wrapped an arm around you and kept you against me while I kissed your shoulder and your throat. You stayed there catching your breath for a few seconds before apparently remembering the true crime committed tonight.

"You stole my underwear again."

I kissed the corner of your mouth and said the only responsible thing in that moment. "I'll buy you some new ones."

That made you laugh against my mouth, and fuck, sweetheart, I could become seriously addicted to that sound.

I almost bent you straight back over the workbench.

I wanted another hour with my mouth buried between your thighs, wanted to feel you squeeze around my cock again and wanted to hear exactly how loud I could make you if neither of us had anywhere else to be.

Apparently getting to fuck you once didn't satisfy anything, it just gave my obsession better fucking material.

By the time we eventually left that room, your dress was wrinkled, your lipstick was completely fucked and your hair looked considerably less tidy than it had when I found you. But you looked happy.

Not embarrassed and not wondering whether you'd done something stupid.

Happy.

And I didn't want you to leave. I thought the letters would be enough until they weren't, then I thought finally touching you would settle something in me. It didn't.

Now I want more.

I want breakfast with you, which is possibly the most alarming thing I've admitted in any of these letters considering murder somehow felt easier. I want to sit across from you when you know exactly who I am.

So here's what happens next if you want there to be a next.

Saturday morning, go back to the coffee shop and order two pumpkin spice lattes with extra cinnamon. Sit at the corner table with both cups.

If I see the second coffee, I'll come inside. I'll sit down across from you and tell you my name, and for the first time you'll know exactly which ordinary man has been writing all this filthy shit to you.

If there's only one cup, I keep walking.

You don't owe me an actual relationship because you wanted me tonight. Halloween can stay Halloween if that's what you decide when the adrenaline wears off and you've had time to think about what the fuck you just did.

I hope you don't decide that. I desperately fucking hope there are two coffees on that table, because I don't think I'm finished with you, not even remotely.

But, apparently I'm finished pretending the letters are enough, though.

I really should sleep.

I'm still not going to, because you told your stalker to chase you and promised he could fuck you if he caught you. You insane fucking woman, of course I caught you.

Now I'm sitting here at three in the morning realizing I don't want another chase nearly as badly as I want that second coffee.

Yours.

Completely fucking yours.

P.S. I also seem to want to start a collection of your used underwear. Obviously.